


Eating Crackers

by mylittleredgirl



Category: Stargate Atlantis
Genre: F/M, Imported, Originally Posted on LiveJournal
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2007-02-02
Updated: 2007-02-02
Packaged: 2018-09-21 11:39:33
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,944
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/9547547
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/mylittleredgirl/pseuds/mylittleredgirl
Summary: ... as in, he wouldn't kick her out of bed for it.





	

She's ripping off his shirt as she kisses him on the neck, _his_ neck, _the_ spot on his neck that Stacey Collins found in the tenth grade and that he has never ever been able to come up with a defense for. Ever.  
  
Elizabeth touches _the spot_ , just touches it, with her teeth, then sloooooooowly bites, and he moans and almost drops to his knees.  
  
Stacey Collins never figured _that_ out.  
  
And _Elizabeth Weir is ripping off his shirt. Ripping. Off. His shirt._  
  
It's alien fabric, sure, especially delicate and silly-looking and probably tears like kleenex, but John Sheppard is not at all about to quibble with details here. _Elizabeth Weir._  
  
Oh, God.  
  
"Stop, stop for a sec," he gasps, because he can't quite figure out how his limbs go and he needs to get all their collective clothes off _this instant_ and he needs to take a few seconds to make sure this is actually happening.  
  
Because it's Elizabeth Weir, and it's been one and a half -- two -- three years of waiting and wanting and flirting and just-barely-touching and now he's here.  
  
"I'm not drunk," Elizabeth tells him. It's her brook-no-arguments voice, but her eyes are hazy and he drank just as much as she did at the Iruk harvest festival.  
  
His arms tangle in the seams of his sleeves, and she tries to free him, laughing when the sleeve slaps her in the face.  
  
"Yes, you are." He doesn't say it like it's a bad thing. "I'm drunk, too."  
  
"Good. Then we're even." Elizabeth giggles and goes for _the spot_ again.  
  
He moans preemptively and stabs a hand to her shoulder to push her off. "No, no, no. Your turn."  
  
They're in her quarters and he can't find a clear path to the bed fast enough, so he backs her up against the nearest dresser. She draws in a breath.  
  
"Okay?"  
  
"Handle's cold," she says. "Feels good." Licks her lips. Kisses him.  
  
Good. _Lord._ If John had known that she could kiss like this, if he'd known the city leader and his boss and his friend could do _this_ to him...  
  
She's warm. Strong. Determined. It surprises the heck out of him, and also not at all. She kisses just like _Elizabeth._  
  
He's got one knee between her legs, pinning her against the dresser. She hums and it goes right down through him, hitting all the right places, drawing his hips toward hers. He has no chance.   
  
She licks her lips again. "What are you waiting for?"  
  
He's got her right where he wants her.  
  
He _wants_ her.   
  
"Elizabeth..."  
  
He waited too long, and now she's looking at him. "Are you having second thoughts?"  
  
He doesn't actually remember who dragged whom away from the festivities after a conversation they never should have started, but they both faked sobriety and sanity as they strolled through the control tower and she didn't even have to invite him in. Hands and arms and lips and jackets dropped and now he's here, in Elizabeth's quarters, about to do...  
  
... something he never thought he'd ever get the chance to do, and Elizabeth wants to know if he's having second thoughts.  
  
"I don't know," he admits, and something other than passion grips his chest. Fear. Something like fear.  
  
He needs Elizabeth to mean this, because their lives are about to get very, very complicated, and if this is just some _thing_ he accidentally talked her into-  
  
Elizabeth rubs up against him. Moans.  
  
She's evil. _Evil._ His hands fumble for her breasts, pushes her up against the dresser. Her body fits perfectly against him, all lines and curves and the cold metal of her belt buckle through his clothes.  
  
"It's because you don't really want me," Elizabeth suggests, pressing her chest against his. She's wearing an alien kleenex-top too, and the delicate fabric sets all the hair on his chest on end.  
  
She's teasing him. Baiting him. He can't figure it out when all the blood has drained out of his brain.  
  
"I want you," he assures her, biting her neck.  
  
"Take it off," she whispers. She grabs his crotch with one hand, and he can't think at all, anything beyond _now, now, now._  
  
Her shirt's off -- he's not quite sure how. He unclasps her bra, but it's still tangled around her shoulders.  
  
"It's because I didn't agree to that Keltrani mission," Elizabeth says. She's deliberately squirming between him and the dresser, and wraps one leg around his hips.  
  
"You want to talk _missions_?" he gapes.  
  
She's tugging on his belt buckle, trying to unclasp it with one hand. He's not helping, bucking into her hand, desperate for sensation, too much not enough-  
  
"I put a reprimand in your file," she says.  
  
\- because he overruled her, it all went to hell, Caldwell bailed him out and Elizabeth said, Elizabeth said -  
  
"I trust you," he tells her, like he didn't tell her back then. He wants to pull away from her hand, say that when she'll really listen, but the feeling of her fingers through the fabric makes it all the more real. He kisses her neck. She smells perfect, sweat and skin and lavender and lemon, smoke from the alien bonfire, that quiet scent that's her shampoo or her perfume or whatever it is that drives him crazy in the briefing room when he's not paying attention.  
  
She had to know, all along, how badly he's wanted her.  
  
"This is such a bad idea." He doesn't mean to say it aloud, but it's mostly muffled in her hair anyway. She yankes his belt free, slips a hand inside and he bites down on her shoulder. His dick throbs in her hand and he wants more, more-  
  
"Your turn," he reminds her, pushing back. He'd do this anywhere, given the chance, but since he has the choice, he wants to do this in a bed.  
  
Her bed.  
  
Elizabeth wraps her other leg around him, using the dresser for leverage. "I don't pick up my clothes."  
  
"Don't care," he says, carries her halfway to the bed, careful of wayward socks. She slips down his body as he goes until she's standing on her own. Drops her pants.  
  
She's smiling, positively grinning at _whatever_ the expression is on his face. "I'll never call you _baby._ "  
  
He laughs. Elizabeth shouldn't be calling anyone _baby_ , unless maybe it's a dog, and probably a small one.  
  
They give up on undressing each other and just race for the bed, his clothes mixing with hers on the floor. He'll find them later. That's the least of his concerns about the morning after.  
  
And when she stretches out next to him on the bed, pale and sexy and funny and _Elizabeth_ , she looks like everything he wants, and he wants her to stop talking.  
  
She smiles, lazy and sultry, one hand trailing down her own body. "I still don't like football."  
  
He grabs her hand. Pins her down. He's on top of her, but right now, she looks anything but submissive. "I'm not really thinking about _football_ right now, Elizabeth."  
  
She touches a hand to his chest. She doesn't look like she's teasing anymore. "What are you thinking about?"  
  
He rubs against her thigh once, for emphasis, and has to clench his jaw to keep from moaning. "That's a stupid question."  
  
She smirks. "Humor me."  
  
He's thinking a whole lot of things, but he's not going to say any of them without a good long time to think them over first.  
  
"I always talk this much when I'm drunk," she says, a warning.  
  
Now he has a question. "So what happens when you sober up?"  
  
He's still pressed up against her, but he almost stops noticing as he watches expressions play off her face. He holds his breath. It feels like something important, really important, is hanging in the balance of whatever she says next.  
  
"You'll probably have to chase me down," she says.  
  
"Okay."  
  
"I'll give you every excuse in the book to try and end this."  
  
"Okay."  
  
"I won't be as careful with your feelings as I should."  
  
She says _your feelings_ like she already knows everything he's not saying.  
  
"Okay."  
  
She smirks devilishly. "I'm on the pill."  
  
Before she can close her mouth, he grabs her in a kiss, swallowing her words. She wiggles her hips, bringing all his attention back to her bare skin beneath him, and he kisses down her throat, trying to find _her_ spot.  
  
When he does, she comes halfway off the bed.  
  
He dips his fingers between her legs, something he never in a million years thought he'd actually get to do to _Elizabeth Weir_ , and she stops talking all together.  
  
He's the one who says, "I want you."  
  
She ends up on top. He isn't surprised, and puts up only a token struggle. He'll get her next time.  
  
There will be a next time, because he's just as damned stubborn as she is.  
  
When she sinks on to him, painfully slowly, he stops thinking about tactics and plans and mornings after, and can only think about this, about his hands on her hips and her body around him, warm and tight and here and _real._  
  
He wants to say her name but she doesn't let him, kissing him when he tries, and it feels like every part of his body is trying to escape.  
  
He's not going to last long. He's been drinking, and she's all over him, naked and beautiful and warm and hands on his chest and lips against his and when she grabs his hand and guides it between them he acts on nothing but instinct because his mind can't process that Elizabeth Weir is helping him get her off. Showing him how. Taking him with her.  
  
Her lips go slack against his and she gasps, and he takes her moment of distraction to grab her hips and roll her over into the bed. Her back arches upward, both hands grabbing his arms for grip or balance or closeness and she gasps low in her throat as every muscle in her body shudders.  
  
He's not thinking anymore, only moving into her as deep as he can, every sensation in his body distracted between the claws in his arm and the feeling between them and it isn't until he thinks he will never breathe again that Elizabeth tightens one last time and he's gone.  
  
When he pulls himself together, she's laughing. His first thought is to wonder whether she always laughs when she comes down, or if he said something ridiculous he doesn't remember.  
  
He doesn't want to move yet, and she doesn't push him off.  
  
"Three years," she says. Her cheeks are flushed, damp, hair everywhere.  
  
He's never seen anything more beautiful in his life.  
  
"Three years."  
  
"I don't think I expected it to happen like this," she tells him.  
  
He's too warm and comfortable to be worried. She wriggles underneath him and he obligingly shifts, settling against her side. "Are you disappointed?"  
  
She brushes one hand over his cheek. She doesn't usually look this vulnerable. "Never."  
  
"Don't go," he murmurs, wrapping one arm around her to hold her close.  
  
She sighs, rests her head against his shoulder. It takes a moment for her to answer, "It's my bed."  
  
"Oh. Don't kick me out."  
  
"Do you always talk this much after sex?" She's teasing again.  
  
"Do you?"  
  
"Yes."  
  
He kisses her shoulder and hopes for... something. Lethargy is taking over and he wants to sleep like this, with Elizabeth at his side.  
  
"I eat crackers in bed," she declares.  
  
He opens one eye. "Shut up."  
  
She snuggles closer. "Good answer, Sheppard."  
  
He thinks so, too.


End file.
